Rewritten with ink
by teepotty
Summary: History is written by victors, and Hermione, Harry and Ron are nothing if not that. Time-Travel!Golden Trio.
1. Chapter One

_Listen, I never wanted any of this._

 _I was a young boy who never dreamt of becoming the world's most powerful, most lusted after man. I never wanted to fight. I never wanted to lead. Sure, some of you think it's the sole reason I was born for — to defeat the Dark Lord, to oppose the forces of darkness — but I'm afraid I'm about to disagree vehemently._

 _You were so very brave, the poor, faded shell of my mother told me. She forgot to mention how afraid I had been, how impulsive, how naive. Of course, I later understood what Dumbledore did — the people I saw were not my parents, were neither my godfather nor my mentor. They had been there to press me into accepting my death, to tell me what I wanted to hear in order to seal my last sacrifice, to carry out Dumbledore's preciously calculated plans._

 _I'm tired of fighting. I'm so, so very tired. And yet, when I look into Ron's and Hermione's gentle eyes, I know it's what I would do in a heartbeat to keep them safe — what we three would undoubtedly do. We had accomplished so much together, we've gotten so far .. They proclaimed us heroes, even as we scattered like rats in our apartments, hiding from the world in a vain attempt at forgetting .. They disregarded the deaths, said it was normal in times of war, that it was to be expected .. We were children, how could we have known? How could we have prevented it ? We were thrust into war, and once it truly, truly ends .. for it still hasn't, no matter what lies the Ministry spurs, what strong image they wish to project .._

 _Once it truly ends .. What will we become ? Who will we become ?_

 _It's funny, how even now adults never helped. Never wanted to .. were always so comfortable letting us take the blame, take the responsibility, making the changes. It was them — them who should have stood proudly against Lord Voldemort, them who should have hunted the horcruxes, them who should have fought for their very lives! Not their children, never us. How could we not have seen how manipulated we had been ? Ah, but of course .. A task given to us by the man we practically worshiped .. Merlin's reincarnation, had once said Ron. Have faith in Dumbledore, had always been Hermione's words. He was a war hero, the leader we all wanted to follow, a calming presence like no other .._

 _An honor, it was, to be seen delivering Dumbledore's orders. It made us puff our chests, and pride ourselves for being trusted. And on top of that, Dumbledore gave us the ultimate secret, the one that would bring Voldemort to his knees. His last choices, his latest wishes, had been for us to continue what he started. It was the icing on the cake, I believe. Whatever suspicion we had about him seemed to have entirely disappeared after that token of trust._

 _What did he start_ _, you would ask. You guys did all the job, you would say. What did he do if not create more problems for silly dropout of school teenagers ? The horcruxes we found could have easily been gathered by a man whose vast circle of intelligence, friends and allies had been unmatched, no?_

 _Well — refusing him never crossed our minds, not even once, for making him proud and pay tribute had been ever so important to us. I hope you wouldn't judge us so harshly — this is, after all, Dumbledore we're talking about! The man, the myth; the legend._

 _And besides, I did love him. Even now, when contemplating how deceitful he has been, and how blind I have been — I love him._

 _Ah, but yes, he has always been manipulative, of that I am sure — and it is amusing to discover that I have always had an inkling suspicion about it .. but I never thought that it would be to that extent at least — it hurted, to discover that he was set to die, and to have never known about it. But he knew me, so very well — well enough to predict that I would blame myself for his death, especially after our last little adventure, and how set I would be on avenging him .._

 _I_ _truly, truly thought that I was in his debt — he wanted me to delude myself with these thoughts, so that I would never find the urge to renounce the fight. The fight I believed was my legacy._

 _And yet, all this time, he had been controlling me, feeding my insecurities .. I should have realized .. I should have suspected .. For who sends one to war so untrained, as Dumbledore did me?_

 _I was shocked, I assure you. I still am. I don't think there would ever be a time where I wouldn't be. Sirius, dead, because I did not - would not listen. Cedric, dead, protecting me. My parents.._

 _Snape .. was a bully. He might have had some good in him, but he had been an awful, petty, cruel human being. So horrible, in fact, that even now I cannot think of him without biting down a grimace. He had joined the Death Eaters in spite of his feelings for the muggle-borns they targeted — for my mom — and it was only her apparent death — which, again, was partly his fault, by the way — that had him work for the Light._

 _Dumbledore used to say that he kept me alive — he used to say a lot of rubbish, now that I think about it. And while I am forever thankful not to have met my end in that Quidditch pitch, that sunny day years ago, for he had bought Hermione and Ron some precious time to distract Quirrel,_ _I would never forget that it was his duty to do so — his duty to protect the children in his care, as a Professor — and Snape did nothing of that, not really._

He shook his head, still in daze, and a voice snapped him out of his stupor. Ron's smile was brilliant and warm. It always was.

"All right there, mate?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You don't have to worry about it. I - I got this."

"Not worrying," Ron laughed. "That must be fun."

"There is no time for jokes, boys," Hermione said quickly. "I wrote the runes. The spell is in march, and with Ron's strengthening the wards' hold .. Harry, it's on you now."

Harry blinked, surprised. "My turn already? I thought Ron—"

"Harry," she warned him, "I know what you're trying to do. It won't work."

"Felt I should try all the same," he murmured. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"It's really not," said Ron. "After all, it's _your_ idea."

He glared at him. "And Hermione came up with the plan."

She smiled. "We all did our part."

"The plan was that I, and I _alone_ would —"

"You're not leaving us behind," interrupted Ron firmly, his blue glinting with determination and concern. Harry wanted to kiss his worry away. "You're not buying yourself time to go back alone-"

"Was that a pun?"

Ron frowned at him. "That was certainly not one."

"Definitely a pun," Hermione agreed.

"We're in this together," said Ron softly, not bothering looking up at their grinning faces. _Whenever you utter a pun, Ronald_ , had said Hermione slyly, a few days ago, _you will buy — or better, cook us dinner._

 _For how long_ , he had despaired.

 _A week_.

The week in question had only just begun.

"We are," said Hermione, taking both their hands in hers. "We're not leaving you."

Harry stopped tapping his feet. His grin flattered slightly, "I always wanted a family," he told them quietly, "I - I thought it was one of the silly things people wished for - the ones that never come true."

Ron's lips twitched. He shared a fond stare with Hermione. "And now?"

"I have everything I ever wanted," Harry said. "I'm sorry."

"No," said Ron, tightening his hold on his hand. "Don't be. We wouldn't change a thing if we got the chance."

Hermione snorts in amusement.

"Well, _obviously_ ," he looked at Hermione somewhat sheepishly, "we're time travelling to alter events. But what I meant was - er - I don't know what my life would be without the two of you."

"Hum," said Harry, looking flattered. "Go on."

Ron rolled his eyes. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there is one thing I'm sure of —"

"So it's only one thing now," muttered Hermione. "I thought you were so sure Chudley Cannons will win this season's cup—"

" _Is that_ ," said Ron forcefully, "we're supposed to be together."

"Always and forever," promised Hermione softly.

Harry chuckled, and nodded. He tossed his head back and looked at the ceiling. He had painted it himself. If he had known they will not be staying here for long, he would have had Kreature do the dirty work.

Hermione sent him a pointed stare. He started muttering the odd chants she had forced him to learn in order to complete this 'journey' of theirs and make it the safest possible.

He felt like an idiot. And was sure he looked like one, too. Ron must have thought the same, because he could hear him sniffling his laugh.

Then he went still, feeling his vibrant magic in the air. He smiled at them.

"I love you guys."

And in a blink of an eye, the three of them were gone, as if they had never existed.


	2. Chapter Two

Her snarl become more prominent, her eyes darkening in a way fifteen years old Hermione Granger's normally curious filled expression could never muster.

She regarded the room coldly, and felt Sirius going rigid beside her. Her eyes found his — and he would have been surprised, shocked even, wouldn't he, at the agony in her gaze, had she not carefully hidden it behind an angry glint. Better play the self-righteous teenager. It would not do, she thought, to create more problems than what she already had in her plate right now.

She could almost feel Sirius' worry — curtesy of legilimens' courses. And it was well found, for today had been a disaster even pessimistic Hermione Granger couldn't have predicted. And yet, she was still so very relieved. In the corner of the normally silent dining room (Harry had taken to calling it the Room of Plans, because it was where they discussed their theories and strategies for the battles to come), Sirius' loud, bark of a laughter was akin to music to her ears. How long had it been, since she last heard someone laughing so freely? She had always envied the older man's ability to move forward with his head held high ; thirteen years in Azkaban seemed to have done little to stomp Sirius Black's fire. If only she could say the same of herself.

And Fred was smiling. He was alive, and lively, and warm, and not at all the deathly pale, limpid body that she recalled in the Battle of Hogwarts — he had been smiling even then. The memory twisted something inside Hermione's lungs, and suddenly she couldn't breathe.

Was this .. All of this, a good idea?

She recalled their arrival with unease. They — Ron and she — had been brought back in a circle of light, stumbling and drained and finding themselves right inside a Grimmauld Place that was definitely not inhabitant. It would have been dismissed as a spell go wrong, as children doing children things, had it not been for Ron's awful tank top.

Top which showed a lot, lot of skin.

Mainly, scarred skin. It was upon noticing Ron's faded scar — Hermione had warned him it would take some time for it to truly heal and be gone for good, and that that tank did nothing for his complexion, really — that things really went bad. Mrs Weasley's voice had risen a few octave higher than they could tolerate, and it added to the general concern, how they both flinched at the sudden yelling.

The memories never fade, somehow.

And from then on, the scrutiny began. Ron, taller and wider, with shoulders broader than ever, was gaped at. Her, more woman than girl, looking nothing like her younger counterpart. Things certainly didn't go as planned — in but a night time, the changes in Hermione's figure had been quite noticeable for everyone to comment on. Most attributed it to her magical core's sudden eagerness to develop (which wasn't that far off from the truth, really), but when Ron, of all people, was subject to the very same effects, the Order began getting suspicious.

It all ended with Mrs Weasley showing just how deep her worry ran: she threw a fit worthy of her last name, locked Ron up in his room, and threatened everyone who might have a single idea of who hurted her poor, poor son so terribly to confess immediately.

Meaning, her time had been consecrated to sending a few pointed stares in Hermione's direction.

When her future good-mother finally cracked and sat her down to have a long, nice chat, she refused to even mutter a word, and Mrs Weasley took that as a sign that something extremely dangerous had happened to them both.

There were bigger problems, however, than Mrs Weasley's bloodthirt.

The spell did not work.

Well, it did. Just not in the way they had intended it to. It should have sent them back to the start of their fourth year, in their de-aged bodies, so that they could work to minimize the damages Barty Crouch Jr imposed as the auror in retreat, Alastor Moody, would undoubtedly make.

Something went wrong, however. Terribly, terribly wrong: for starters, they did not expect the fusion of their matured and under-matured bodies. Even now, Hermione could feel her magic growing stronger, and wondered what it meant. They should have calculated all the possible outcomes — perhaps even considered something akin to this happening. They should have had a story at hand — one concocted and revised together — concerning some unknown magical artifacts they found that had them mature quickly. Or some potion they brewed that impacted them in ways they hadn't considered.

All of this would have helped ease the confusion — even Fred and George, who were normally unfazed, seemed concerned.

She thought of Harry, in a prison of his own, and her heart ached. _Did the trace work still?_ Hermione didn't know, but she wouldn't test her luck. She wished he wouldn't, too.

 _But he will be fine, of course. He.. He'll be okay._ Hermione wasn't sure, however —he was all alone and imprisoned in all but name in that awful muggle house. This summer was the most eventful one they had, if she recalled well — the dementors and Umbridge will be dealt with, eventually. In the meanwhile, she needed Harry to stay out of trouble.

She also needed to get him out of there before anything bad happened, knowing his luck.

Gods, she must send him words of their safe arrival at once. She should —

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes met hers when she abruptly stood, drawing few other stares from the others as well. The old man's benevolent smile had her smiling back, no matter how much she distrusted him. She had missed him, in some ways. But she wasn't delusional: he could tell something was amiss, and it wouldn't surprise her to know that he would be keeping a close eye on her. She would expect nothing less. This also meant she wouldn't be able to get to Harry without Ron's help.

 _Well_ , she told herself. Time to do what Harry does best. _Improvise._

* * *

Harry woke up with a headache so terrible it made that horrible bond that had once existed between Tom and himself look like a mere playful punch.

 _Where—?_

The horrible throbbing pain over his left eye made him want to throw up, but Harry refused to start his second life in such manner, and so he willed himself to calm down. He would began it in a way he always dreamed it would initiate — him relaxing in his bed like there was no tomorrow, with no one, not even Hermione, prompting him to get up —

"Boy!" screamed a voice that had him open his second, unaffected eye in horror. He knew this screeching, horrible sound. It came from the deepest of Hell itself, fierce in its desire to make Harry Potter suffer.

There was no way he was this unlucky.

" _Boy_!"

No, no — _no_. Gods, this must be some kind of error — some sort of prank, perhaps —

"Up you get, boy!" said the unmistakable Aunt Petunia. Harry could tell she was scowling from her frustrated tone of voice, no doubt thinking how her life could have been much easier had she not opened her door that eventful night twenty — or was it fourteen?— years ago and let her nephew freeze to death.

Harry, too, was thinking about such a life. It sounded way better than what he was about to face right now.

"There is much to do, you lazy boy, and you will not rest until all is done, hear me? Am I making myself clear? Or else, _no lunch_."

Harry opened the door, his smile a sarcastic, chilling thing. Of all the places he could have landed in, why did it have to be Privet Drive? Now that he thought about it, he should have recognized the bed. And the room, too, no matter how dark it was.

The Aunt Petunia's sneer had faded, a surprised expression taking hold of her face. She examined him the same way she would do a new neighbor, her eyebrows raised in obvious interest and curiosity

It was as if she had forgotten who stood before her.

The examination dragged on until Harry could no longer tolerate it. "Is there a problem?" he finally asked, doing his best to sound polite. It helped, the fact that he thought he'd never see her again.

Truth be told, he almost had forgotten all about her. More than ever, Harry cursed the day he agreed to Hermione's plan.

Aunt Petunia shook her head in response, that troubling look she had growing dim. "The—re" she started, almost sputtering before stopping to throw him a nasty glare, as if his mere presence was the cause of all her suffering. "There is, as I already said, much work to do."

Harry nodded. He was still smiling that condescending smile of his that unnerved her. "You also mentioned that no chores being done would results in no luch being given, right?"

 _Awarded_ , was the term he meant to say. In Privet Drive, the Freak had to work for food. It was a luxury he remembered doing most days without.

When his aunt showed her approval through something between a smile and a snarl, he grinned. "Very well, then. Have a good day."

He closed the door swiftly in her face, ignoring her indignant cries and mumbled insults. He crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below: Privet Drive looked busy and alive, exactly like it did that day, where Dudley and he had been attacked by Dementors. Little Jackson trotted down the alley with books in hand, Madam Wellor was sitting in her chair by her door, listening to that old, classical music of hers she boasted so much about, her husband looking up to smile at the neighbors once in a while. Particularly at Miss Lyton, who was reading her newspaper, looking disinterested as his cousin and group of crony pushed her nephew out of their way as they walked about.

 _Dudley_. The name made something twitch in his guts. He could almost make out Piers, as lanky as he was short, whispering some plans they were about to execute. _Probably bullying younger boys, like the cowards they are_. He couldn't see Dudley's expression from here, but if one thing was sure, this was not the cousin he had come to know after the war.

He wouldn't go out today, or preferably not for a long time, of that he was sure — even if it meant not confronting his cousin about what was surely going to happen with him gone. His scrawny younger self had always felt the need to stand up to his cousin — and he had been the only one to do so.

He suddenly remembered Dudley's vacant stare after the attack — his cousin had looked so deadly pale and fragile, shivering in his mother's embrace. He could have died, he realized, feeling cold. _And it would have been my fault._

 _It will never happen again_ , Harry promised himself.

Yes, it would indeed be wise not to set a foot out of the house all summer — or at the very least, not until Ron and Hermione came to get him. There was no evidence Umbridge wouldn't send the dementors after him any other day. And he couldn't afford to trust the Order's agents to keep him safe — they didn't when it mattered.

He glanced at his reflection, and almost broke down laughing. He looked nothing like fifteen years old Harry Potter was supposed to look like. In fact, he didn't exactly look like he used to before the spell, either. Aunt Petunia's shocked face made a lot more sense now, though. He was tanner and taller, leaner and more muscular, his face bare of glasses (the magical surgery would have costed much of his fortune, had he not been the Chosen One). All in all, he looked closer to twenty than he did to ten.

 _Privet Drive .. Cedric .._

This was not at all the outcomes Hermione spoke of. They were supposed to be brought back to the Burrow, where they would patiently wait for the World's Cup and from then on, try to secretly bring down Voldemort's base and track Crouch before he managed to kill his father.

 _Merlin_ , he thought, frowning, _what did I do wrong again?_


End file.
